Il Mistero Alla Base
by ladynorthstar
Summary: Assassin's Creed Brotherhood -  finally alone in Tiber Island, Machiavelli confronts Ezio about his failed assassination of Rodrigo Borgia, and both men find out that it caused more bitterness than they'd have edxpected...  Machiavelli/Ezio-Leonardo/Ezio
1. ATONEMENT

Il mistero alla base : Atonement

When the sound of Fabio Orsini's steps finally faded into nothing, Machiavelli and Ezio were alone at last among the stonewalls of Tiber Island's warehouse. The man's hate for the Borgia had made him lent them his property to make it their hidehout, and red banners of the Order hung all around them, reminders of what that abandoned place was meant to be used for... but there was no sign of the Order within those walls: the two men were apparently on cordial terms, but at the moment they were barely able to stand in each other's presence.

Machiavelli had never been keen on cooperation: he hated having to confront other people's ideas, and could barely work with his fellow Assassins. The only reason why he'd always been fond of Ezio was that he wasn't a stubborn rival to him, but just a powerful weapon; a weapon ready to strike, destroy, do anything that was needed to be done for the greater good... and yet, he failed. No, Niccolò still couldn't forgive him for letting Rodrigo live, it was his fault if that cancer was still devouring Rome, and Italy. In Machiavelli's eyes there was nothing but disappointment, and frustration: why did the Eagle betray his trust? Even thinking about Ezio was enough to make him irritated, and still he aided him, and brought him to the new Order's headquarters. Probably because Ezio was too much of a powerful weapon to waste him, Niccolò couldn't let his feelings interfere with the Order's goals. But he knew that wasn't the only reason, there was something he wasn't ready to admit... and still he just couldn't bring himself to forgive him.

From his side, Ezio was still chewing over what happened: he brought on himself Niccolò's discontent and his sister's rage, but everyone else seemed to have quickly forgave him, as if it was nothing... even with Mario's death, no one but the man now standing in from of him was blaming the last of Auditore's men: his courage and his deeds were so great that everyone was ready to ignore his faults... not Machiavelli.

But they had to work together, they had to get rid of the Borgia, they had to find a way to get over those resentments, even if they were well buried deep inside them, so difficult to bring to the light, so difficult to erase.

"This time you have to destroy them."

"Lo farò, Niccolò... I will."

Ezio himself couldn't find the real reason why he didn't kill Rodrigo... it wasn't just pity, he had to be something else: as if the Apple's influence dulled his good sense, suggesting him to do the silliest thing to do. And they were all paying the consequences now.

"Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe... I still can't understand why you let him live."

Niccolò's tone wasn't leaving any room for understanding: it was pure contempt.

"We are not here to question my doing, we are here to put an end to all this: what do you intend to do?"

"I intend to find out if I really can trust you! You already spared his life once, how can I be sure there will be no second time?"

"They killed my uncle just days ago and you question my determination?"

"They slaughtered your entire family too, but that wasn't apparently enough to make you take the right decision!"

Ezio couldn't say anything to defend himself, Machiavelli was 10 years younger than him, but he was sure more good at finding the right words to strike a man down.

"... this time I'll not fail, you have my word."

"Your word is not enough for me... how can I trust you, Ezio Auditore?"

Ezio sighed, out of arguments: there wasn't something he could say to make Machiavelli feel more inclined to believe in him, but not having his trust would mean being stuck in that dead end forever.

"I really can't see a decent reason why you didn't kill him!" Machiavelli continued "he is a powerful man, the most powerful man in Italy, he has an army at his command, he has ambition, he has a will strong enough to control the Apple and still those weren't reason good enough to terminate his life? He is responsible for the murder of your father, of the man that gave you life, and you, you... just let him walk away like he wasn't a worthless minor target, like nothing! What were you hoping for, Heaven's forgiveness? There is no Heaven, Ezio, and surely it's not there we are destined to go after our departure from this world. If just you could tell me one, just one re..."

The only way to shut Machiavelli up the older Assassin was able to work out was probably the worst possible one: he pressed his lips against the other Assassin's, suffocating his words of disdain. Ezio was too used to deal just with over-talkative women, and his body reacted before his brain could suggest a better solution.

Niccolò stood there, astonished, for a couple of seconds, then suddenly he gripped Ezio's wrist, forcing his left arm behind his back, pressing him against the wooden column that was just next to them.

"Sei impazzito?"

"Scusami, I... acted without thinking."

"I hope so! What... is that your way to end a discussion?"

"Usually, yes..."

Ezio's answer was so sincere that Niccolò found difficult to keep on shouting at him: he wasn't stupid enough to think Ezio wasn't feeling any guilt for his bad decision, but his rage was so burning and intense he couldn't just let him get away with that.

"Damn you, Ezio!" he lifted up a little the older man's arm, still bent behind his back, making him leap a bit for the pain. "You are cocky, pampered, no one ever tell you you are wrong and so you think you can make decision all by youself! You are part of an ORDER! If the Order says you have to kill someone then you will!" he lifted the man's arm a little bit more having him grin his teeth. "You can't even imagine HOW MUCH I'd love to make you FEEL sorry for all the pain your decision caused."

Machiavelli stopped, loosened his grip on Ezio's wrist and stepped away a little, shocked by his own vent: it wasn't like him to be so direct. But the astonishment didn't wear off, because he noticed that Ezio was still there, immobile, pressing his forehead against the wood, faintly panting and mumbling something. Niccolò got close to him again, to hear what he was saing.

"...e me..."

"Cosa?"

"Make me..."

The Assassin's plea wasn't something he would have even expected to hear.

"What are you saying?"

Ezio turned, to face his fellow Assassin: his golden glaring eyes staring directly into Niccolò's.

"I'm begging you Machiavelli: make me feel sorry."

There was no need for more words.

The little storage room beside the main hall had some metallic rings on the walls, probably it used to be a stable once. And now at one of those rings was tightly knotted a rope, tying together Ezio's hands: he was facing the wall, arms stretched over his head, his clothes piled up on the opposite side of the room.

Machiavelli had been off to take something for at least ten minutes, and when he walked into the room the older Assassin could feel some relief inside his hearth, alongside the fear for what he knew it was going to happen. He wanted Machiavelli to do it, still he was afraid: not once in the last twenty years somebody from his side told him he was wrong, not once he was blamed, not once... even if he knew he wasn't without sin. And so, remorse and desire for penance kept on growing inside him, undisclosed, unpunished, unnoticed.

He needed this more than he needed to breath air.

Machiavelli was behind him, moving slowly, making him feel the discomfort of waiting without being able to see or do anything. Then he started.

The first hit of his flog landed on Ezio's upper back, making him gasp in surprise; but he wasn't given enough time to adjust his mind to the pain that crossed his body, because a second stoke came, and then a third. The pain was something completely different to what the Assassin was used too, so different that confusion was the feeling reigning over his heart. Machiavelli didn't seem to care much about the other man obvious state of painful amazement, and he kept on with the flogging. Stroke after stroke, without getting ever far from his back and leaving burning marks behind at every hit.

After several minutes, he finally heard the first moan coming from Ezio.

"Are you crying, Ezio Auditore?"

He wanted to humiliate him, to torture him, to reduce him into a sobbing rattling shadow of the arrogant and spoiled men he was. And Ezio was longing to see him succeed.

"I... am... not..."

"You will"

More flogging came, torturing the already grazed skin of his back, making him arch and squirm in pain.

Ezio wasn't able to keep himself together anymore, but he was determined not to cry: he had to endure his punishment the best he could.

When the flog stopped, he sigh of relief escaped trought his lips, making Machiavelli mad.

"Haven't you ASKED for that? Then why are you happy now that I stopped? Should I be tougher then?"

Ezio couldn't help but shivering. "No, I..."

Niccolò didn't let him the time to excuse himself: a powerful stroke for a cane hitted his buttocks, sending blows of pain thought his body. He found himself unable to keep his knees from melting, and the other strokes succeeded in subjugating him completely: he was now completely at Machiavelli's mercy.

Hit after hit, the pain was starting to mix with a sweet, strange sensation: the awareness of how rightful this torture was, the consciousness of deserving even more.

His lips were aching for air and spelling silent requests of keeping up with the punishment.

It started to feel so right Ezio could feel some arousal building up, in the form of a familiar tingling sensation deep inside him. He asked for it, but just now he was able to see it for what it was: the purest form of expiation for all his mistakes, and his flaws.

He never felt so pure.

Then Machiavelli stopped again.

Now every fiber of Ezio's body was shaking, quivering for the endorphin rush and for the confuse mass of sensations that were trying to take over his mind and body: relief for the end of the torture, dissatisfaction for not having being punished enough, shame for his pitiful condition, arousal coming from nowhere, but unwilling to leave.

Niccolò admired his work, yet not satisfied, and unfastened the knot around the man's wrists.

The older Assassin fell on his knees, unable to stand properly: he looked tired, destroyed, his eyes were watery, but not a single tear was wetting his face.

"Do you think you've been punished enough?"

Ezio shook his hand in denial, slowly, leaning carefully his back against the wall to support himself, but immediately gasping in pain for the contact.

"I'm glad to know you are aware of that. Follow me."

Machiavelli ordered, turning his back to Ezio and walking toward the opposite side of the room, where there was a wooden bench and some empty banks.

Machiavelli took a seat on the bench, waiting to the other Assassin to arrive: Ezio's peace was unsure, his legs still unable to support him, as the pain flashed though his whole body at every movement. Ezio reached Niccolò, standing in front of him, the man subtly smirking in satisfaction. He grabbed one of the Eagle's wrists, raw because of the rope holding them together until moments ago, and pulled him lightly, guiding him to bend and lie over his lap.

The older Assassin swallowed loudly, feeling a cold chill running down his spine as he realized what was going to happen.

"Why do you seem more scared of this than of being whipped?"

Niccolò asked, noticing the uneasiness of the other man.

"I've... never..."

There was no need to end the phrase.

Machiavelli raised an eyebrow, surprised of this disclosure: how come Ezio's parent never did it? Maybe they used to utilize different way of punishing their children when they were kids?

"Well, it's not going to make it less effective..." Niccolò let his fingers run on Ezio's bruised back, then he stopped on his arse, grabbing without consideration one of his harshly caned cheeks as he spoke "If you know what I'm going to do then present you bottom better, Auditore."

Ezio gave a start, immediately adjusting himself on his companion's lap, obeying him without hesitations; he was indeed more scared about this than he was for hanging down the wall, but still because of that he wanted it so badly he was barely able to hold himself.

He was sure that was going to make his heart feel truly lighter, thought the pain and the humiliation he was going to receive.

Ezio was still thinking about that, when Niccolò hand fell across his bare ass.

More than the pain, what dazzled Ezio was the sound: it was so loud, and unmistakeable, the first hit seem to echo across the room for seconds.

When the second hit came, Ezio's floundering hands found the fabric of Machiavelli's coat, and gripped it with strength. The other man couldn't help but noticing it, and smiled: he wasn't going to scold him for showing weakness; he wanted to drag out every single inch of the Eagle's weakness. He wanted to prove himself that he was right at trusting him.

The spanking continued.

Machiavelli's open hand was thrashing the other Assassin's buttocks with something that could be called austerity: he was not having fun, he was administering him a well deserved punishment he'd rather have never been forced by the turns of events to administer.

Niccolò would have loved to have been given no reason to have to punish Ezio, but the Assassin failed him, he was so disappointed in him that this was the only way to make things right.

In the meanwhile, the Eagle was beginning to break down.

Each jolt was harder than the previous one, each hit louder, each second spend on Niccolò's lap was making him feel more miserable, and at faul: it was bringing out all the sense of guilt he had inside in such an effective way that the sense of atonement hadn't reached him yet.

Before he could ever notice it, Ezio's war to maintain a little bit of control over himself was lost: at first just some tears, running slow down his cheeks, then he began to silently weep, making a river out of his tears, then he started crying without restrains.

It was impossible for Niccolò not to hear that, even the snapping sound of his hard and fast blows wasn't able to cover it.

He stopped for a second, rubbing his hand against the welted bottom of the other Assassin.

"Do you want to say something, Auditore?"

Silence finally fell, just for moments, then Ezio rattled a single word.

"Continua."

Machiavelli didn't make him repeat himself.

He began again, harder than before. Every angle of their hideout was full of that ruthless sound and of the desperate sobs coming from Ezio's throat.

Machiavelli didn't stop for what seemed an eternity, but that probably was about half an hour.

Over his lap, the Eagle was lying abandoned, like a rag doll, deprived of any strength.

His breath was heavy and broken by sniffs and moans, and on his bright-red bottom hands marks were clearly showing.

Niccolò was examining him, caressing his sore cheeks and feeling them hot under his fingertips. He was nearly gentle now, even if his touch wasn't less of a torture than the spanking before.

Now all the hate he was feeling for the trust Ezio betrayed was gone, and instead he started to feel nearly... protective toward him. He wanted to have him feel safe, to have him know that has been for his own good, to make him a better person, a better Assassin.

"Ezio, it's over now."

He said in a soft tone, leaning and hand on one of his shoulders to make him turn.

The Eagle didn't oppose that, and rolled over the younger man's lap, finally facing him: his eyes were red and bleary, but his expression was relaxed, even peaceful.

Machiavelli bend down a bit, embracing him to lift him and have him seat straighter. He was holding him is such a caringly way, when he pronounced some simple words "Ti perdono Ezio... I forgive you."

When those reached Ezio's ears, his arms returned Niccolò embrace, closing around his chest, forehead pressed in the space between Machiavell''s neck and shoulder.

They stood like this for long enough to make their body feel dizzy for the stillness, not able to make a decision on what was right to do then.

It was Ezio the first to open his mouth.

"Niccolò..."

"Si/b?"

"bGrazie/b."

Machiavelli searched for the older man's eyes, but met his lips: the Eagle kissed him for the second time, but this time he didn't push him away.

He returned the kiss and took quickly control over it, while turning, still clinching on the other man's body, making him lie on the bench, under him.

Their kiss was as long as their embrace had been, heads feeling light, bodies needy of contact.

But they didn't go further.

They released each other body, still kissing fiercely, and slipped slowly to end up sitting next to each other. Their finger crossed, hands holding, and they finally broke their kiss.

The contrast among their appearance was striking: Machiavelli was fully dressed while not a single piece of cloth was covering Ezio's body, and while one body was vibrating in a self-confident severity, the other was nearly curling, sings of his chastisement showing clearly.

Machiavelli reached for Ezio's lips once more, stealing a long kiss, then he lifted his chin with two finger, to be able to study his eyes.

"Ezio, you know that would be useless without the promise that it would repeat every time you'll happen to disappoint me again, right?"

"I... I know..." Ezio was nearly hoping for Machiavelli to say so: he felt way better now, but he was still so distant for the inner peace he was lounging for. "Please don't go easy on me, Machiavelli: punish me each time you'll consider it necessary."

Niccolò smiled, as proud of his achievement as he oddly was of Ezio's brave yet submissive statement.

"I will, and I'll do it because I care about you more than I've ever cared about someone..." he kissed him again, just for an instant, to remark his words.

In the meanwhile, his heart was ordering him to cease with the harshness and just let himself love the older man, but his head knew what was the right thing to do.

"E' meglio essere temuti che amati, it is better to be feared than loved."

But yet, he was going to try his best to be both.


	2. TURNABOUT

There were many situations that called for a punishment.

Niccolò had made a long and detailed list of offences, from the most innocent ones, like being late at reunions, to the most hideous, like failing an assassination. Every single item on the list had a proper penalty stated clearly: number of strokes, instruments required, the position Ezio had to take.

Machiavelli had always been really fond of lists; it was a way of writing that needed further exploring in his opinion. They were essential, like an index, but could allow infinite ways of widening the content, through the exploration of every aspect. So he utterly enjoyed writing this particular one, and he found himself shamelessly gleeful when he observed Ezio's face turning white during his first reading of the long, detailed paper.

The Eagle's hand wavered for an instant before appending his signature at the end of the document bearing his condemnation, but that was something they both agreed on: there was no turning back.

He wanted Niccolò to bring him to light, to mend his soul by the mean of his severe and pitiless hands; he tried not to think about it, but his mind was completely absorbed by the memory of the punishment the younger man delivered him... and of the sense of freedom and happiness he felt just afterwards, and their lips kissing, Niccolò's hands slowly petting his hair to comfort his tears. Ezio wasn't able to remember himself crying any other time since he was 17.

And so, their routine began.

Usually their encounter took place once a week, sometimes twice, always in the same way. Machiavelli ordered Ezio to strip, then to listen to a detailed chronicle of all his mistakes and a description of his punishments. Lastly, the older Assassin was tied to the wall or made to bend into the required position, then the name part began.

Niccolò's had no such a thing as a favourite tool: whip, riding crop, belt, scourge, cane, paddle, switch, they were all administered fairly.

He reserved his bare hand for special occasions.

For no apparent reason, in fact, Ezio seemed to be oversensitive to this kind of punishment, and having him in tears wasn't Niccolò's goal; he wanted to see the older man's peaceful expression at the end of a harsh punishment, he wanted to be thanked, he wanted to be able to steal away long and passionate kisses from him... He wasn't ready to admit it, but he dreamed about the other Assassin's lips every night, waking up soaked in sweat with the fake feeling of Ezio's skin on his.

Their Tiber Island's hideout then became the guardian of their secret.

Unfortunately, after resuming ties with the rest of their allies, the continual coming and going of thieves, courtesans, and messengers bringing information (or asking for some) had forced them to choose a place far enough from the Main Hall and from any place that a particularly curious guest could reach. Pity was that Ezio didn't have a personal room, for he was used to sleeping kind of everywhere: on the armoury's floor after a long day of training, at Bartolomeo's after too much fist fighting in the basement's barracks with the Mercenaries, at La Volpe Addormentata or at the Rosa In Fiore, too tired to keep on running, after barely escaping Borgia guards... he was a stray, and maybe because of that Niccolò wanted so much to tame him. So, in the end, Machiavelli's own room was the only solution.

It was on the most remote part of the whole complex, surrounded by some narrow storage rooms of hardly any use. Walls were thicker there because they had to face the heartless erosion caused by Tiber's waters, and it was distant enough from the main sections of the building to make even screaming out loud unnoticeable. Yet the fact they were using such a personal space made their sessions a little bit more intimate, without them even noticing it.

It was after Caterina's rescue that everything changed.

They'd spent a year already on Tiber Island hideout, building up a strong underground net, a new Order, and looking after each other's need in their peculiar way, without ever daring to try changing how things were.

That night, Niccolò was feeling again that bitter disappointment, after Ezio's second failed attempt to take at least one of the Borgia's life. He knew, because this time he was sure of it, that it wasn't the Eagle's fault, but he still couldn't help feeling frustrated and cross. His anger was fed by Ezio's initiative towards recruiting members of their Order that, in his eyes, were just peasants and misfits.

So, when the other man returned after a long afternoon running around Rome to spot potential Novices, he immediately called him in his room.

The Eagle knew Niccolò had a congruous number of reasons to be mad at him, and he wasn't going to oppose his decision; that was how it worked.

He stepped into the room, slowly closing the door behind him, and searched for Machiavelli's eyes, finding only his back, as he was facing the window.

"I'm here..."

"Take off your clothes."

Ezio began stripping, freeing himself firstly of all his weaponry, then of the vest, the trousers, the boots. Just a thin shirt that once was white as his robe, but time turned into something more yellowish, was still covering his skin. Machiavelli turned toward the older man, a shadow of contempt on his face.

"I'm really disappointed."

Ezio didn't say anything to defend himself. He just made a step forward Niccolò.

"Hands on the desk, bend over," Machiavelli ordered, reaching for the chest where he kept his tools.

Ezio obeyed, slightly puzzled by the missing statement of what was going to be his punishment, but not entirely surprised. When Niccolò was serious he was never really eager to talk...not at the beginning at least.

He found out when a lash stung his tights, sharp and burning, making him quiver. Hazel switch, the Auditore had no doubts. Stroke after stroke, Ezio could feel his skin cutting in many places and his own blood spilling and slowly tracing down the line of his muscular legs, to stain the red carpet covering the the switching moved from his tights and reached his buttocks, he couldn't avoid making a half choked scream, as the rod hit just in between them. Nicclò seemed to notice it, and kept on hammering that point, mangling the older man's hole, managing for the first time to have him begging for mercy.

"Please stop, bast, Noccolò... ti prego..." Ezio was whining, his body trying to wriggle out of that torment, while his mind was trying to force him to stay put.

Machiavelli stopped, and put down the blood stained switch on his desk, right beside Ezio's face.

"Across my lap, we haven't finished yet," the younger man said, then he sat on his own bed, and waited for the Eagle to reach him.

Ezio's knees were faintly shaking, as the switching made it really difficult for him to walk, and after just a pair of steps he found himself forced to crawl to Machiavelli. Still, he took his place, placidly, but he was indeed somehow scared. Niccolò was undoubtedly going to use his hand, and he was well aware of not being able to take this punishment with the cool endurance he was able to show with the others.

The spanking wasn't as hard as the first one, it was less instinctive too: Niccolò balanced the number of slaps, giving each cheek one for a while, lingering over the same for 5-6 hits and just then switching to the other one, stopping to rub his hands on the reddening flesh of the older man and starting again, harder. Ezio was sure he would never get used to the sound; it was like hearing his own pride snapping. The more the spanking went on, the more he was feeling miserable and cosy at the same time... until the familiar tingling arousal started to build up.

He couldn't deny feeling a strong attraction for Niccolò, after all few men have ever been able to subdue him. For all those men he'd always felt a destructive desire, a urge to feel their bodies against his, inside his... He used to be disgusted by his own lusts once, but it was a long time before as he was at ease with himself and able to control those passions. Yet with Machiavelli it wasn't physical attraction alone: he liked his absolute and bossy ways combined with a naivety springing from his young age, he liked watching him thinking, absorbed, he liked quarreling with him. He knew that having sex with Niccolò would have meant letting his fondness became something deeper and more complex, and wasn't ready to start all over again. Cristina and Leonardo had made him suffer enough.

Niccolò didn't stop for what seemed to be an eternity, until sobs started to rise from Ezio's throat. The younger man admired his work, his hand-marks glowing on the flaming red cheeks of his older companion's butt, the striped signs of the switching before still clearly visible on his thighs, some sporadic woulds that had begun to faintly bleed again.

Still, Niccolò's eyes couldn't get away from the man's buttocks. He began caressing them, feeling them burning hot under his fingertips, and rubbing his hand up to the Eagle's inner tights, where the skin was still cool and soft, untouched by the harsh punishment. Then he casually slid his fingers between Ezio's cheeks.

"Unf..."

Niccolò stopped: that wasn't a sound driven by pain. He rubbed his hand there again, tentatively.

"Nh...nf..."

More guttural moans coming from the Eagle. Now Machiavelli was more than sure of Ezio's reaction.

He spread his buttocks with his hands, making Ezio groan for the indelicate grip on his tormented flesh, and observed his hole, noticing his faint twitches. He rubbed a finger against it, and this time the older men let out a proper moan.

Machiavelli swallowed noisily as he noticed the whole situation was starting to bother him, but he wanted to see how far he would have be able to get. He started massaging Ezio's entrance and his perineum, and the more he insisted, the louder the other man's moans became.

After a while Niccolò could even feel the Auditore's hard manhood pressing against his tights.

He decided to be more daring.

He pressed his middle finger on the man's sphincter, slowly beginning to penetrate it. Ezio grasped the bedclothes, gasping, his whole body becoming tense as the finger forced its way in. When Niccolò started to pull it out, Ezio moaned softly and began to relax.

The last time he had sex with a man was months before, when half drunk. He let one of Bartolomeo's men roughly take his ass after losing a stupid bet, pressed against the dusty and filthy wall of the barracks, probably with some spectators too as he couldn't really remember it well. Now it was different: Machiavelli's hands were delicate, slowly testing where to touch, and even if the unlubed fingering hurt, there was something caring in the way the younger man moved.

Soon Niccolò added his index finger, thrusting it inside quickly, and then scissoring both fingers a bit, to adjust them inside the other man's body.

Ezio initial whimper of discomfort soon turned into a mewling sound, while both fingers found the spot inside him able to make him scream like a whore. While rubbing his thumb in the space between the man's hole and his testicles, Machiavelli began massaging his prostate, deeply enjoying the wanton sounds the Eagle was making.

Then, he suddenly felt a hand touching his crotch. Skillful fingers quickly found their way inside Niccolò's pants; a hand grasped his nearly painful erection, starting to stroke it gently.

Machiavelli smiled while widening his legs a bit to give Ezio enough space to continue, and he kept on with the fingering. That mutual masturbation slowly drove them both to the verge of orgasm, reinforcing the already long desired attentions with a thrilling feeling of complicity, so they did not last long. The first one was Niccolò, spilling his semen on Ezio's abdomen and hands, and on his own bed. Then Ezio came with a feral growl. For a moment they remained there, immobile; the awkwardness was so thick that it made air difficult to breath. Both panting, they were just unable to find a way to look at each other in the face.

Niccolò slowly pulled his finger out, and rested his joined hands on Ezio's back, looking down at the man's scarred and tanned skin and desiring to kiss and bite it, but unable to make any moves. Ezio brought the hand he just masturbated Machiavelli with to his mouth, secretly licking the sperm from his fingers, while all his body screamed in lustful desire. Ignoring it was turning into a impossible task.

Luckily for him, the younger man broke the silence.

"It's over, sei stato bravo Ezio... you've been good..."

Their ritual phrase, the only one Machiavelli was able to pronounce.

Ezio rose from the man's lap, and sat just beside him, pressing himself a bit against the other Assassin's body: he wanted him so much. Machiavelli let his arm slip around the Eagle's waist, holding him close. Both silent, they kept on just standing there, embarrassed by their own urges.

"Niccolò..."

When Ezio called his name, the younger man finally found the courage to reach for his eyes, finding them as much veiled by lust as his own, and as full of doubts.

"Si?"

The Eagle paused, swallowing, then he stole Niccolò's lips for an instant, a short kiss to make sure he would not be rejected.

"Voglio fare l'amore con te... I want to make love with you." He didn't say sex and he didn't even know why.

Machiavelli didn't let Ezio think about it much, because he fiercely kissed his lips, cutting the other man's breath, making him gasp. In a matter of seconds they were both lying on the bed, embraced, kissing desperately, Niccolò's body pressing strongly against the older man's under his. Their lips did not part until they both become so uncoordinated they couldn't breath and kiss simultaneously. They stopped, still breathing each other's air, eyes engaged in a mutual curious examination.

"I want it too," Machiavelli finally answered, making Ezio smile.

"I got that when you tried to suck out my face."

"It's always better to be clear and say things aloud."

"Indeed, Niccolò..." the Eagle leaned his lips on the younger Assassin's cheek, and then ran in fingers among the short hair of the man.

Niccolò then rested his head on Ezio's chest, still trying to put everything in the right order inside is brain, unable to do anything before doing so.

He was confused by this turn of events, but utterly happy: the Auditore wanted it as much as he wanted, but still until half an hour before he would have resigned to abandon any hope.

"You know, Niccolò..."

"What?"

"I was kind of expecting you to be... keen on men..."

"You were?" That was certainly a surprise. No one even told him his ways could lead people to consider him a sodomite. "Why?"

"Because I have an instinct for those things... if I like a man, then he is of the kind that likes the company of men, or at least that doesn't dislike it."

Niccolò smiled, but then he realized what that phrase could imply.

"So you..."

"Sporadically, lately..."

"And once?"

"I used to have a... lover, you can put it that way."

Machiavelli was intelligent enough to have no doubt of what the lover's identity could be. "Let me guess: he is blond, with a goatee, and often talks nonsense?"

Ezio goggled, amazed by Niccolò's supposition. "How can you...?"

"Well, he's been put on trial for sodomy, he's been your acquaintance for more than 20 years, the few time I saw you two together you kept on smiling at each other like newlyweds..."

"Are you kidding me?"

"As for the last statement, yes. But you surely were really comfortable around each other."

Ezio sighed: why did he have to fall for the genial ones? A normal dullard would have been so nice. "Please, spare me, I'm not intelligent enough to keep up with the sarcasm and witty affirmations."

"You are much more intelligent than what you seem, you just lack of wisdom."

"And that makes me not really eager to be fooled around."

Niccolò smiled against Ezio's coarse skin. "You are giving me further ways to torture you, you are aware of that?"

With a soft laugh the Eagle held the other man tightly, kissing his hair.

Niccolò then freed himself from Ezio's embrace, and rolled on the side, to be able to sit on the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"You are the only one not wearing his clothes..."

"Let me help then."

Ezio's fingers started to unbutton the younger man's shirt, while the other man was working on his pants and boots, getting rid of them. Team work made Niccolò free of all his clothes in instants, but the Eagle didn't let him do anything as he stopped him, holding him by his shoulders.

"What?"

"I didn't imagine you'd have so many scars..."

"Still little compared to yours. And I'm an Assassin! I fight too, remember?"

Niccolò grabbed Ezio's wrists and had him lie down again, towering over him. His body wasn't as bulky as the older man's, but just because of his peculiar conformation: nervous muscles were clearly in sight, and his six pack wasn't less visible than the Auditore's. Yes, he was an Assassin too.

"What do you want to do?" Ezio asked, while opening his legs. He wanted to be taken so much, he felt like a beast in heat.

"Everything."

Ezio licked his lips in anticipation, and welcomed Niccolò inside his hug, winding his arms around him as the Machiavelli's renewed erection worked his way inside his tight, dry hole. It was excruciating, but the Eagle wanted it to hurt; he wanted to be dominated.

Niccolò was shivering. The older man's body was so tight that penetrating it was nearly painful. He started to thrust slowly, hoping to loosen the tense ring of muscles a bit, and when he finally felt it relax, he picked up a faster pace.

The Eagle was a moaning mess, scratching Machiavelli's back with his fingernails, biting his shoulders, barely coping with the pain sweetly mixed with pleasure, like bitter medicines are mixed with honey. The friction was driving him crazy, pervading his body with shakes of pleasure and mangling it at the same time.

"Ti piace?" Niccolò whispered to Ezio's ear, asking for his approbation. He could feel the other man was in pain, but at the same time he could feel him enjoying it.

"Si..." the Eagle sighed, as finally the pleasure began overthrowing the ache. "More, I want... more..."

Machiavelli obeyed, screwing him with more violence. He would break soon, but he was not willing to stop.

The older assassin's lecherous screams grew louder as he began stroking his own erection, feeling the orgasm approaching, and Niccolò was able to push inside him just for ten, twelve seconds, before coming inside him, sealing his lips on the Eagle's while freeing himself inside his hot twitching body. The older man followed, shooting his seed on Niccolò's chest, digging deep into their kiss, their tongues frantically battling for dominance.

Machiavelli put an end to their kiss and retreated from the other man's body, letting himself fall heavily on the bed, sitting in front of the obscene spectacle of Ezio's spread legs, and of the white trail of sperm leaking from his red and throbbing hole.

"Come sei bello," he whispered, while leaning over to kiss his groin. "Such a beauty..."

Ezio gasped at the contact, closing his eyes and biting his lips, as Machiavelli's continued to brush the sensible skin of his inner thigh. He was tired, and fighting against the haze of sleep, he kept on softly moaning, letting the younger man enjoy his body as he pleased.

When Niccolò finally stopped, Ezio let out a sigh of relief, and his breath suddenly began to grow regular, as his head was already entering the realm of Morpheus. Machiavelli smiled, seeing how fast the other man was able to fall asleep, and took place by his side, covering them both with the bed-cloth, and searching with his hand for the Eagle's, to cross his fingers with the Ezio's.

They were going to wake up together next morning, he was going to be able to see the sunlight bothering Ezio's sleepy eyes, and watch him stretching out with a yawn, and then he would have been able to steal his lips, perhaps his body, one more time, and then again, and again...

He smiled, and with the man he lusted after for so long asleep in his arms, he let himself succumb to weariness: as he had been rash, not timid, he was finally able to hold Fortune down.


	3. TRINITY

It took him years to realize, but now Ezio was more than certain: he fell just for those able to make him fell stupid.

In the eyes of a stranger, it could seem a rather simple task. After all, the Eagle was no monument to wisdom, nor ever made any display of exceptional brightness, but that was just appearance: Ezio was probably one of the smartest people around, he was just unwilling to put his brain in use to do anything aside planning attacks or organizing strikes on his enemies.  
He'd always been incredibly quick in figuring out intricate situations, he was an exceptional chess player after all, and his memory was vivid and active enough to ensure him to remember ever the tiniest and dumbest particulars for years.

So yes, making him feel really stupid was something that required a superior mind... and in his whole life, he crossed streets just three times with people like that.

The first time was with Cristina Vespucci.

At the beginning, it was just attraction, she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen... then he tried to speak to her.  
Her eyes were watchful, aware, judging him with no discretion, probing his very soul while his tongue twisted, making impossible for him to say anything.  
She was able to came up with the most intelligent and witty observation in the most suitable moment, to make decisions without hesitation, to stay firmer than any man he ever met in his life on a decision...  
She made him feel inadequate, too immature and stupid: she was the first person he fell in love with.

The second time was with Leonardo Da Vinci.

He was so intelligent to seem unreal: he was able to figure out the most complicated concepts in matter of seconds, his mind was so open to any idea and any possibility, that his doing seemed that of someone coming from a distant future, and his knowledge knew no bounds.  
Standing by his side Ezio understood why I liked this kind of persons: so that he could switch off: stop himself from taking decisions, from analyzing, from having the responsibility to understand everything and elaborate plans. He could just let Leonardo think, observing him frenetically running from one side of the lab to the other, picking things, talking to himself... it was utterly fascinating.  
Ezio wasn t sure of when his feeling of admiration and friendship become something else, he knew just that when he found the artist s lips pressing on his, he couldn t turn him back... he wanted it too.  
He made him feel awkward, confused and dumb: he was the second person he fell in love with.

The third time was with Niccol Machiavelli.

Ezio was quite sure Niccol didn t like him very much at the beginning, it took him years to understand that it was just a show, put up to conceal the younger Assassin s admiration - fascination - for him. Niccol wasn t a genius of the same league of Leonardo, nor his ways were as striking as Claudia s, but he was an outstanding one anyway. He was practical, a heartless analyzer, able to see trough the threads of the most complex scheming and able to read the minds of the greater people and then, still, completely blind when it come to understand the hearth of the simple ones.  
Because of that, Ezio always considered him as lacking of any creative and instinctive ability... so when he accidentally read some of his letters, those left him astonished: how could a man of such austerity be able to disclose his heart on paper and ink in such way?  
Then he began to observe him, to understand him, and he realized his initial mistake.  
He made him feel unable do judge people, shallow and silly: he was the third person he fell in love with.

His luck was so great, that all of them loved him back: Cristina for such a short time it seemed an instant, Leonardo for such a long time to seem an entire life, and Niccol was still there.  
It was the first time Ezio could allow himself to see the smile of the person he loved every day, at every time of the day or night... the first time he managed to stay so close to his beloved one, the first time he managed to grasp something similar to stability.  
He could walk into Tiber Island at any moment, and feel the lips of Niccol , feel his touch, feel his breath, feel his warmth. He wished he could have reached something like that with Leonardo, instead of letting everything fall apart, driven away by the cruel wind of distance: they d been kept apart for too long, they had their chance to be happy in Venice, and then Destiny decided it was time for them to move on... they took just SO long to realize it. They probably weren t meant to be since the beginning, belonging to worlds that had no reason to meet, but they still fought with everything they had to keep their love alive. But after winning so many battles, the war was lost at last...

Ezio still wandered what might have been of Leonardo sometimes, lying in Niccol s arms at night: he would have given anything, ANYTHING, to meet him again... 


End file.
